I am the apocalyptic girl:

The blood along my thin hands and frame flow cold and absolute as I walk amongst this baron land, I see people on their knees praying to their gods, I look up hoping that they’d come down with a hand and help them as they prophesy states, so I can slit the wrist of the helping hand itself, so that I can bathe and taste the blood of their beloved Savior, and watch the minds of their worshipers minds and bodies crumble like the lands they inhabit.

Diaries of the post-apocalyptic girl.

I am the post-apocalyptic girl. I can feel the energy coming off of the satellites above me, calling out for their masters, I wish I can shut them up, tell them that their masters are dead, and they’re as isolated as I am. the survivors don’t understand why I wear high-heeled boots.